


Broken Crown

by consultinggalpals (sansa_undergrind)



Series: the universal language of mankind [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mumford & Sons, POV John Watson, Pining John, have taken over my life, music fic, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansa_undergrind/pseuds/consultinggalpals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I realise now that I’m plummeting to the ground and that if I don’t stop this – whatever <i>this</i> is – there won’t be much left of me, the small, rocky asteroid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXzDu071RdQ) by Mumford & Sons, this is a character study of sorts, focusing on the various stages of John's pining after Sherlock across the series.
> 
> This is not Beta'd in the slightest, and tbh some parts I just wrote on the spur of the moment while listening to the song on loop, so you are bound to find weird syntax and occasional repetitions. Also, as mentioned already, English is not my native language. 
> 
> Hopefully all of this won't prevent you from enjoying some good ol' pining John.

You said so on our second encounter, that night at the restaurant. You said you considered yourself ‘married to your Work’, whatever that meant. I heard the capitalisation in your voice and I said it was fine, really, great even. You’re unattached, nobody to hold you down as you soar through life, aloof as they come.

Except, I quickly came to the realisation that you _need_ someone to hold you down. Somebody needs to keep you grounded and make sure that the chances you’ll self-destruct are minimised. In some bizarre twist of events, you let me be the one.

 _Touch my mouth_  
_And hold my tongue_  
_I'll never be your chosen one_  
_I'll be home, safely tucked away_  
_You can't tempt me if I don't see the day_

As I start gravitating more and more around you, a stunted asteroid pulled in by an incandescent giant, you start doing unusual things to me.

Your face mingles now, more often than not, with those nebulous attractive figures that I conjure up in the darkest moments of the night, one hand stuffed awkwardly down the front of my pants. In those moments, I see your long, nimble fingers trailing along my mouth, I see them cupping my jaw as that voice – _sweet Jesus, that_ _voice_ – reverberates through every bone of my body. I’m frozen to the spot, save for the frantic strokes of my left hand, and my eyes are wide, staring unseeingly at the ceiling, and my tongue feels too big to fit in my mouth.

In a handful of seconds, it’s all over and I’m left with sticky fingers and a bitter taste at the back of my throat. Where lust and heat coiled, at the pit of my stomach, now cold and shame are seeping through. And it’s not even a matter of upholding one’s sexuality; no, it’s just the incontrovertible truth of _you_ , beautiful and just beyond my reach. An alien planet, unconquerable. I realise now that I’m plummeting to the ground and that if I don’t stop this – whatever _this_ is – there won’t be much left of me, the small, rocky asteroid.

So I try and shut you out. I decide to give that woman from the clinic a chance. She’s nice after all, funny, has a cute smile. She’s a doctor too, so there’s that. We have things in common and the amount of awkward pauses in conversation is marginal.

And if when she’s between my legs, her lovely mouth stretched around me, I close my eyes and pretend to grasp at dark curls instead of a smooth ponytail – well, who would be the wiser?

 _The pull on my flesh is just too strong_  
_It stifles the choice and the air in my lungs_  
_Better not to breathe than to breathe a lie_  
_When I open my body and breathe alive_

It turns out you _do_ feel things that way. Who’d have thought it, am I right?

I mean, yes, I _did_ think it. For a second, there at the pool. The way you divested me of that big bulky coat, the way you paced up and down as I collapsed quivering against a shower stall, the way you ruffled through your hair with that gun – my gun? – and the way a corner of your mouth slowly quirked, just for me.

I was _so sure_ for a moment. If I had had any feelings left in my legs, I would have kissed you there and then.

Instead there were more red dots, and another monologue, and finally the Bee Gees. It was mostly a blur after that and you never mention anything, not once in the following case-riddled months.

The Woman makes it evident enough, though. Something shifts when she’s in the room and your eyes trail after her every movement. At first she’s sharp and sexy and oh, _so_ very like you. She flings herself out of a window wearing nothing but your coat and I am painfully aware of it. Of your… I don’t even know what word would describe it. Infatuation, I guess. You play sad music when she dies the first time and I’m left picking up after her, collecting the pieces of what I didn’t know could break.

When she returns into our lives, she’s different. She’s soft and warm and vulnerable and I can barely look at her without the urge to strangle her. You let her wear one of your silk dressing gowns and she nestles down, purring at you like a cat. The room becomes stuffy and I can hardly breathe, I have to storm out. And you don’t even notice, although I try and make a big show of it.

She dies again and the most despicable part of me is _glad_. When your brother tells me, the first thought that goes through my mind is _I hope with all my heart that she will stay dead this time_ and I’m barely ashamed of it.

But when I see your face, those eager creases around your eyes when you ask about her, my resolve melts away. The idea of being the harbinger of anything but hope is suddenly repulsive. The only thing I can do is lie through my teeth and drop her phone in your impatient hand.

That is the moment I realise the depth of my involvement. The moment I come to the conclusion that your hold on my life, my body, my _soul_ is too strong to be broken painlessly. And that I do not want it to be broken. Ever.

 _I will not speak of your sin_  
_There was no way out for him_  
_The mirror shows not_  
_Your values are all shot_

When people say ‘what’s the worst that can happen’, they ask it rhetorically, figuratively. Their brains can’t even _begin_ to imagine the worst possible scenario.

But with you, the impossible is never far around the corner and, well, the worst that can happen is nothing short of that. The absolute worst.

It’s feeling utterly helpless, wanting to shut my eyes against the ghastly picture of a dark figure tumbling down a building, limbs flailing.

It’s dragging my legs – which suddenly are leaden – towards a limp body on the pavement, as people cluster around it.

It’s reaching for a wrist and feeling nothing, not even the faintest hint of a pulse.

There is no respite from this. When I close my eyes, the vision haunts me. It plays behind my lids as I struggle to fall asleep, tangled sheets around my ankles and immensurable pain that I have not felt in months piercing my leg and shoulder.

They’re trying to convince me that you’re not real. That you jumped off a building because you couldn’t live with your shame. That you are a fraud, a sham, the biggest lie I have ever been told.

I couldn’t believe _you_ , how could I believe them.

I do not know what happened on that roof, prior to the end of everything. My mind boggles at what could have possibly pushed you on that ledge. There must have been something, some _one_ up there with you and I cannot shake the feeling that _he_ was involved in some way. The most venomous of spiders finally managed to trap you in his web and watched you twist and tangle until you gave in.

Until you were over the edge.

When I ask your brother at your funeral, he’s even vaguer than usual, avoiding any mention of the consulting criminal. His flippant reaction to your coffin being lowered into the ground causes my hands to shake and clench at my side. I could do something regrettable, probably punch him, but suddenly our landlady’s small hand is in mine, squeezing gently.

When I’m left on my own, touching your headstone, I ask for the impossible under my breath. I ask for you. I pour my heart out, I utter those words that have been dancing across my mind for what feels like forever, wishing that I could whisper them in your hair, as I hold you against my chest.

I then turn around stiffly and face my life as bravely as I can, knowing that it would be hollow and plain. In innumerable ways worse than it was before I met you.

 _But oh, my heart was flawed_  
_I knew my weakness_  
_So hold my hand_  
_Consign me not to darkness_

Days that feel like months and months that feel like years pass.

I move out of the apartment, obviously. I go back to the dingy rooms I stayed at those first weeks in London. They are suffocating, too small and too empty at the same time.

I pour myself into my work diligently, staying after hours because anything is better than the nightmares that await me in my bed.

And then I meet her. The new nurse, just moved to the city from some non-descript small town somewhere west. Talking to her comes easy enough, she doesn’t tiptoe around me like I’m some kind of ticking bomb and I couldn’t thank her enough for it.

She makes me laugh in a way I didn’t remember I could. There’s a hole in my chest that has your shape and she doesn’t quite fit but it works for the time being. _She_ makes it work; she makes me move out of my burrow, makes a home for us in the suburbs not three months after our first fumbling physical acquaintance.

She’s soft under my fingertips, and warm, but not vulnerable, no. There’s an edge to her. Something simmering just under the surface that makes the blood pump into my veins, as I kiss my way down over the short length of her body, to the fuzzy blond curls between her thighs.

When we lie side by side in bed, spent and clammy but sated, she reaches for my hand, curls her fingers around mine and just holds on. In that moment I can almost fool myself that I am fine, I am okay and I don’t need anything else from my life. This, this is what a normal couple is supposed to look like. She will keep me sane and anchored to reality; she will keep me afloat above the sea of darkness that’s threatening to swallow me every day that you are not here.

 _Crawl on my belly til the sun goes down_  
_I'll never wear your broken crown_  
_I took the rope and I fucked it all the way_  
_In this twilight, how dare you speak of grace_

Like a bolt of lightning criss-crossing an otherwise clear yet dark sky, you are before me. Wearing a ridiculous disguise, which I do not believe for one second you thought would fool anyone, standing again by my side, fidgeting and looking at me with that way you have, a doubtful, insecure countenance, which I believe very few people have been witness to. 

It’s suddenly too much. Overwhelmed I stumble forward, one arm raised, with the original intention of just _touching_ you, feeling you, all of you, any of you, under my fingertips, you’re here, you’re here, you’re _here_ – making fun of me and of my pain. Pretending two years have gone by like nothing. Reducing to a mockery this single, most important moment and the emotions that are threatening to spill out of my lips in a strangled cry.

What I had started as a loving – albeit disbelieving – caress, quickly turns into a vicious, death-like grip on the lapel of your jacket and suddenly I’m pushing, shoving you, hard, until we’re both a tangle of limbs on the floor.

You did this to me, you turned me into this pitiful, bitter man – barely crawling through life and grasping at loose ends, while there, just beyond my reach, you dangled a life of riches, of adventures, of contentment. You showed me what could have been, barely gave me a glimpse of it, before snatching it right away from me.

Standing in an empty train car, you dare speak to me of grace, of forgiveness. You’re on your knees, you’re clasping your long, long fingers in front of your mouth, weeping, _begging_ , to take you back into my life, even if it’s not bound to be lasting much longer. I let out a shuddering breath as all my resolve to shut you out - which was uncertain at best - crumbles.

I know, rationally, that I should be ashamed of how quickly I start to gravitate around you once again; that a soon-to-be married man should know better. But just as clearly I know, to the very core of my bones, that any resistance would be futile and that if you can’t have me the same way I would have you, then I’m content with you just reinstating yourself at the centre of my universe. As I whizz by you, I know I’m orbiting just close enough that I’d be there, if you ever wanted.

_Crawl on my belly til the sun goes down_  
_I'll never wear your broken crown_  
_I'll take the ropes and fuck it all the way_  
_In this twilight, how dare you speak of grace_

This cannot be happening again.

I refuse to accept the reality of you lying in a pool of your own blood once again. Frantic, I reach for your pulse and I find it, feeble and erratic but _there_. Everything happens very fast then, a blur of paramedics whirling around me, but the only thing I manage to keep in focus is your face. The weight of your limp hand in mine grounds me and they have to physically pry me from your side when they wheel you into intensive care.

Agonising hours go by and when they finally let me see you, there is a weight clamping around my chest that doesn’t lift immediately. In fact, it becomes even more painful when, several hours later, your eyelids flutter slightly and one single word drips out of your chapped lips.

I worry at my own lips, tasting blood, thinking of the implication of that name coming out of your mouth. Trying not to make more of it than I should. Trying not to think of you and _her_ , together in any capacity.

When you leave your hospital room, I panic. You are out there, bleeding internally, barely strong enough to hold your own weight, but that is not the only reason why I am worried sick. No, a part of me is convinced you’re trying to go after whoever shot you _on your own_ , and I cannot help but blame myself for letting you think I wouldn’t want to be part of this anymore. For letting you think even for one single moment that I wouldn’t do _anything_ for you.

When I hear your voice on the phone, asking me to trust you, to do what you tell me unconditionally, the dread dissipates slightly. Because it’s still you and me, isn’t it? The two of us against the rest of the world.

And then she is there, pointing a gun at me – except she thinks it’s you. She shot you once already and she won’t hesitate to do it again. She is staring at us with those vacuous eyes and I fully realise what was boiling just under the surface. I also realise that whatever feelings I might have had for her, they are gone, melted away like snow in the sun.

She tilts her head unnervingly, like a lizard or a snake, studying us, poised for her next move.

You tell me I can trust her, that she never meant to kill you, and my heart drops, because of all the lies you’ve told me across the years, this is the most glaring, the most obvious. The one that hurts the most. But I made a promise to you and I’ve long accepted that your way is _always_ , inevitably, my way.

_So crawl on my belly til the sun goes down_  
_I'll never wear your broken crown_  
_I can take the rope and I can fuck it all the way_  
_But in this twilight, our choices seal our fate_

It’s Christmas and I play my role dutifully. She puts on a show, pretends to be overwhelmed by what can barely pass as forgiveness, let alone a heart-felt declaration of love and devotion. We both know this is just temporary, that we’re both merely pawns in a bigger game.

I barely know myself anymore, but one certainty that has never wavered in my whole life is you. You have always been the core of everything I’ve done. You are the reason I still breathe to this day.

And yes, I will never be worthy of you, of wearing your broken crown. It hurts so much some time, knowing that I’m alone in this, that you’re still not ready to accept me into your life as unconditionally as I have accepted you in mine.

But if indeed our choices seal our fate, then I am ready to take the plunge, to side with you wholly and unabashedly.

Yes, I chose _her_ , but now – now I choose you.

**Author's Note:**

> This will have a companion piece sometime in the near future which will be Sherlock-centric. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ [consultinggalpals](http://consultinggalpals.tumblr.com)


End file.
